


A Happy Ending

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smut, banter, fluff, fun!  As ever, I'm ignoring Dar's 5.12 backstory for Quinn as complete Gansa nonsense.</p><p>Prompt fill for my own LJ prompt (#12). ANYONE who has ever been tempted to write please take a look at this fantastic list: http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/125637.html. Many Anons have participated, thanks to Frangi and Laure. So much fun!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Happy Ending

Carrie tiptoes into the bathroom after waking unusually early. She flushes and brushes before finally regarding herself in the mirror for a long moment, acknowledging the strange fact that she looks happy, even glowing, relaxed, and more than a little mussed and sore from the previous night’s activities. She splashes cold water on her face to verify the conclusion. Definitely happy, maybe even content. _How the fuck did this happen?_ she wonders.

It’s become an almost daily internal inquiry.

She carefully climbs back into bed, unsuccessfully attempting not to rouse him. He shifts to his side, pressing his body into her back.

“You awake or just happy to see me?” she asks with a smile in her voice, feeling his hardness deliberately pressing against her bottom, loving his heat and masculine scent, reveling in it.

“Hmmm,” Quinn emits groggily, “both,” trailing lazy kisses down her neck.

She turns slowly, pressing him onto his back rising as she straddles him, positioning herself and gradually lowering onto his cock. They both groan quietly at the joining.

“Way to get down to business, Carrie,” he quips, opening his eyes properly for the first time as she removes her long tank top.

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Quinn reaches his hands to her hips, his thumbs about to separate her folds when she takes his wrists and moves them to the mattress bracing them on either side of his head.

“I have a question,” she declares, much too alert - Carrie-mode - as she slowly leans down to swirl at his nipples.

Quinn groans with both the sensation and dread for what’s to come. “Carrie, it's way too early for conversation.”

“Hmmm, so it's too early to talk but not for sex?” she says into his jaw, which has tightened with tension.

“Precisely… Carrie if you don’t start moving…” he warns, his hips bucking slightly.

She raises her head to make eye contact, her own eyes wide with mock-seriousness. “Is that why men like morning sex so much? No talking?”

“We’re discussing this _now_?”

“Well, we’re having morning sex _now_. When in Rome...”

“I'm not in Rome, Carrie. I'm _in_ you,” and she notices that his frustration is painting a pink hue over his cheekbones.

“Details, details... Answer the question, Quinn,” she teases, softly playing at his earlobe with her tongue.

“I haven’t done a fucking poll, Carrie. Are you going to start moving or do I have to do all the work?” he asks, as his hips buck up with deliberate force.

Her breath catches before she frees his wrists, sitting up again, stilling his movements with her weight, regaining control. “Extrapolate, then.”

He slumps back a bit into the pillow, defeated, for now. “I don't know, Carrie. Less foreplay, maybe? Mornings are time-limited.”

“It's Saturday, Quinn.”

“Same thing. Frannie could wake up any second. It speeds things along,” he says, as he moves a hand to her breast, fingers gently twisting a nipple in an effort to do just that.

Her breath catches as she tries to maintain focus. “Except I don't require much foreplay, normally.”

“Yeah, well, no one ever accused you of being normal… Carrie, if you don't start moving, I'm taking control of this little tumble.”

In response, Carrie contacts her vaginal muscles deliberately, twice, around him. A low sound comes from within his throat. “More information, Quinn,” she says, taunting him, blatantly.

Amused and acutely frustrated, Quinn flings an arm over his eyes. “This is fucking blackmail.”

“Bribery.”

“Carrie, whatever reasons men like morning sex, you're currently violating in every imaginable way.”

She extracts his arm from over his face as her eyes laugh into into his. “What else besides a quick fuck?”

“I don't know. Maybe because men wake up ready for it.”

“You're always ready for it.”

“This conversation is getting stupid.”

“I'm waiting,” and she contracts around him again for good measure.

He inhales sharply. “Okay, okay,” he tries to think for a second. “There's no kissing because of morning breath,” desperate for her to keep up her internal movements. _Any_ movement.

“Kissing is bad?”

“Christ,” he says on an exasperated exhale. “No. Kissing is great. But no kissing means it's more about just fucking.”

Ever the rebel, Carrie leans down to kiss him then, slow and languid and wet. And, she notes for the record, he doesn’t taste like morning breath. Not one bit. “I'm not squeamish, Peter Quinn.”

Relieved — intensely — because he’s pretty sure they’ve turned the corner and are about to finish this thing, he buries his hands in her hair and kisses her back, erotically, his tongue slowly imitating the movements he desperately wants to be doing elsewhere. When he breaks it, she smiles into his eyes, intently.

“I have another question.”

He’s done. Absolutely done. “Jesus fucking Christ, Carrie,” he says and this time when he slumps into the pillows he’s picturing himself jacking off in the bathroom because that appears to be the only way this will ever end satisfactorily.

“Why don't we ever talk about birth control?” she asks, and she’s actually serious.

“Carrie, we're fucking and you want to talk about contraception?”

“Isn't this a perfect time?” She starts to rock her hips because she’s sensing he’s legitimately at his limit.

“No, it isn’t. It's an erection killer. Full _fucking_ stop.” But his breath quickens at her movements, anyway.

“Your erection seems to be holding its own,” she says, still rocking to prove her point.

He shakes his head, wondering, not for the first time, when and why he managed to utterly surrender to this maddening woman, body and soul. “Okay, fine,” wiping a hand down his flushed face and assuming a completely fake-responsible expression. “What contraceptive issue do you need to talk about, Carrie Mathison?”

“You never mention it. How come?” she asks, returning to his throat, tongue swirling.

“Because I assume you're taking care of it,” he replies, hands going to her hips. He’s done with her on-again-off-again, half-hearted rocking.

She props her chin on his chest. “That wouldn't even fly in 7th grade sex-ed. F for you, Harvard boy,” sitting up again to regard him fully and she realizes, idly, that all their banter while being stretched inside by him has her on the brink of coming.

“I'm not in the 7th grade, Carrie. I gave up condoms along with casual sex — mostly — in my mid-30s,” he retorts, moving her hips up and down on him. Her head briefly falls back with the sensation but, unfortunately, it’s not shutting her up.

“That's—” moaning as he vigorously brings her down on him “—when you met me.”

“Gold star for you, Carrie Mathison,” and he sits up abruptly and kisses her, open and erotic but tenderly, finally understanding that something else is going on. “What's this really about?” he asks, eyes on hers.

“Each of us has had accidents. I'm surprised you wouldn't be worried.”

“I'm not worried, Carrie,” he says, scraping his lips across her jaw while his thumb finally finds her clit, circling it.

She surrenders a squeak of arousal but still manages to ask, “why?” around a grateful sigh.

They’re finally fully fucking now, sitting up, he managed to kneel and his hands are helping her to plow down onto him. Into her ear he manages, “because if I get you pregnant you're even more stuck with me.”

It’s exactly what she needed to hear, erotic in a way, and she frames his face with her hands and looks down at him, breathing labored. “I really fucking love you. You know that, right?”

He slows their pace in recognition of the emotion, looking at her, smiling. “Yeah,” he whispers. “And I'll pick some up some goddamn condoms today if you want.”

Her arms lace around his neck, eyes bearing into his. They’re both flushed, close to coming and a little bewildered. “Therein lies the problem.”

He’s struggling for control, trying not to come before she does. “Why?” His voice is clenched, barely holding onto the thread of the conversation.

“It's too late.”

“I'm not following, Carrie,” he says, brokenly.

They’ve completely stilled and for once, he’s relieved because he was about to embarrass himself. She looks at him closely conveying a knowing look full of happiness and arousal laced with a little guilt and nervousness.

It takes a long moment and suddenly he puts it together. “Carrie, are you telling me you're pregnant?”

“I guess I am.”

“While we're having sex?”

“Yeah, though that wasn't really the plan.”

He’s overwrought and overwhelmed and he grabs her hair at the back of her head to still her face that had been trying to duck into his neck forcing her eyes to look at his. He brings her forehead down to his. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Ten pregnancy tests confirmed it.” _A measure of unmitigated sanity versus the sixty with Frannie_ , she thinks. “I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday. Come.”

He rises, keeping them joined, as he slowly places her on her back her legs remaining locked around him. Reverently his hand goes to her face. “Jesus Christ, Carrie,” he says, so softly she can barely hear him, his blue eyes shiny and wet as he looks at her, speechless.

She doesn’t break his look, her eyes filled as well, but the emotion and the sex are strangling her. She kisses him, open with love and longing, needing release. “Fuck me, Quinn.”

He obliges, pressing into her, too carefully, too slowly. She’s impatient and having none of it, grabbing his hair with both hands at the side of his head. “Not like that.”

It’s his complete undoing, but not with the sex. He ducks into her neck and laughs — hard — because, really, it’s all so perfectly crazy and so Carrie. He finally raises his head, looks at her and thrusts forcibly, the way he knows she likes. In mere seconds they come together with a mutual heady, long orgasm filled with breathless wonder at all of it.

When they come back to earth he eventually raises his head. “Christ, Carrie,” he says, still incredulous.

She smiles, self-satisfied. “You’re repeating yourself.” He disengages and she emits a small sound of loss.

“Next time, how ‘bout delivering life-altering news over toast and coffee?”

“I’m pushing forty, Quinn. This is my last trip to the reproduction rodeo.”

He’s still dazed and a hand travels to her abdomen followed by his lips. It’s all so twee and cliché but she’s overwhelmed with the sweetness anyway. He does that to her. “How far along?”

“I dunno. Six weeks. More, maybe.”

“That’s why you haven’t been drinking.”

“Trying to get it right this time, Peter Quinn.”

There’s a poignancy to it, a rare acknowledgement of the clusterfuck that surrounded Frannie’s conception and birth. He glances at the clock realizing it’s seven and an appearance by Frannie is imminent.

He kisses her, soft and sweet. “Ah, getting ‘it right’. Is this a grand plan to trap me into marriage?” he asks before rising to pull on a t-shirt and sweats, tying the drawstring as she rises onto her elbows in what’s about to be an indignant protest when, on cue, the locked doorknob jiggles and a tiny voice comes through the door. “Mommy? Quinny?”

Quinn opens his bedside drawer and digs to the very far back removing a blue Tiffany ring box. He pauses, making direct eye contact, before tossing it to Carrie who catches it just in time. “We can discuss _this_ tonight. During sex.”

He opens the door and scoops Frannie up into his arms. “Morning, Princess.”

Frannie looks at Carrie with concern. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

Carrie corrects her dumbfounded expression and assumes a proper parental smile, burying the ring box under the sheet. “Nothing, Sweetie.”

Quinn winks at Carrie over Frannie’s head. “Your mom’s gonna shower first. Let’s go make some chocolate chip pancakes.”

As the door clicks shut, Carrie settles back into the pillows regarding the box. _Amazing_ , she thinks, _an actual happy ending_.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, huge thanks to ascloseasthis for editing and advice.
> 
> Comments of all kinds are welcome!
> 
> I reserve the right to re-work this as part of an ending for Making It Right... At some point I realized that's what I was writing...


End file.
